


If the Apocalypse comes, text me

by relenafanel



Series: Slayer Bucky [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Brooklyn, Bucky the Vampire Slayer, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Captain America may or may not be a vampire, Comedy, Demons, First Dates, First Kiss, Halloween, M/M, Misunderstandings, Shrunkyclunks, Vampires, hipster jokes, vampire related violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relenafanel/pseuds/relenafanel
Summary: AKA Bucky the Vampire Slayer      Captain America squinted against the sun, raising his arm to shield his eyes.  He looked uncomfortable and angry as the camera zoomed in on his face.  "I don't have anything further to say," he snapped at the reporter.   Bucky's feet fell off his coffee table in shock.  "Holy shit," he said to the room at large.  "Captain America is a vampire."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Если начнётся Апокалипсис, напиши мне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480866) by [softly_play](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softly_play/pseuds/softly_play), [WTFStarbucks2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTFStarbucks2017/pseuds/WTFStarbucks2017)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Вампиры ждать не будут](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15625260) by [fandom_Starbucks_Roles_TwoSexyMen_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Starbucks_Roles_TwoSexyMen_2018/pseuds/fandom_Starbucks_Roles_TwoSexyMen_2018)



> I posted the majority of the first chapter [on my blog last year](relenafanel.tumblr.com) so it might look familiar to some of you.

“I agree that it would be a better reason, don’t you think?” Bucky questioned casually, flicking his finger against the top of the counter. There was a form in front of him with little ticky boxes asking his gender and it felt like Greg was asking a question without coming right out and asking it. “But no, I’m just the asshole best friend who accidentally touched a glowy stick Gandolf the Grey and Oozing was aiming at the Slayer’s head, and here I am.  Slaying.  What was the question again?”

 

“Did you want to join our loyalty club?  Buy 9 magical items and get the 10th free.”

 

“No,” Bucky answered, deeply affronted.  “Ain’t no one got time for that shit.  Didn’t you hear me? I accidentally became the Slayer after touching a glowy stick.  Don’t you know how time-consuming that is?”

 

“I’m sure it’s very time consuming,” the Grihhij Demon nodded voraciously in Bucky’s direction, either agreeing with him or trying to eat his hair as a snack.  Bucky thought that hair was the Grihhij Demon’s food of choice.  It was either hair or skin.

 

He was hoping hair.

 

Though, he was very fond of his hair.  It was finally long enough that he could tie it back from his face.  Slaying with loose hair had been a pain in the ass, but his appearance in the mirror told him it was worth the effort.

 

If Bucky was going to die any day now, he was going to look great while doing it.

 

He didn’t want to have to slay Greg if the demon made a move to eat Bucky’s hair.

 

Not that he thought Greg would eat him.  Bucky might not be a loyalty member, but he was a damn good customer.  Stakes took longer to whittle than he ever wanted to spend holding wood unless it was his dick.  He leaned against the counter while Greg rummaged through the cabinet for the silver tipped bolts Bucky had special ordered.  “It’s not all fun and games.  Do you know how hard it is to do a high kick while wearing skinny jeans?  These things are really tight.”

 

“I didn’t realize you were wearing pants.”

 

Grihhij Demons: not so good at telling clothing from skin.  Bucky made a special mental note about that one.

 

“Well I am and they’re no picnic,” Bucky griped.  He looked down at the form in front of him.  “I do buy a lot of magical items,” he mused.

 

“You do.”

 

“I come here all the time anyway,” he continued.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does a loyalty membership in a demon establishment come with any terms and conditions, like I can’t shop anywhere else or I owe you my first born?”

 

Greg nodded. 

 

“Well, that sucks,” Bucky admitted, looking down at the paperwork to see exactly what people were promising.  Yep.  Skin.  “Sell many?”

 

“A few.”

 

“Greg, buddy.  I liked this place,” Bucky cajoled, raising his hands as he gestured around him.  “There is zero ambiance.  It is what it is.  It’s going to be tough to find that again when so many of these places are dressed up as a novelty shop, but if you’re going to eat the skin of anyone who breaks this contract with you, I’m going to have to slay you.”

 

“You are an asshole,” Greg answered, and Bucky thought he was scowling as he took out a box of contracts and dumped them in the trash.

 

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Bucky told him.

 

“I was looking forward to eating all your chins,” Greg told him with regret, in what Bucky was sure was a compliment, somehow.

 

“What?” Bucky questioned, bringing his hand up to his face.  Grihhij Demons: not so good at telling clothing from skin.  “You mean my scarf?” he finally questioned incredulously.

 

Maybe it was time to ease back on the _Brooklynite in autumn_ look Bucky sported year round if Grihhij Demons were starting to think Bucky’s scarves were food.

 

~

 

It wasn't so much that Brooklyn was a bastion of hell as it was that New York City at large contained a high percentage of people who wanted to 1. become successful, or 2. disappear. Bucky hadn't met a vampire (or whatever) that didn't either want to 1. succeed in their nefarious plans, or 2. prey on people looking to disappear.  New York City was the perfect place to do both.

 

Then they figured out that the island of Manhattan was expensive to live in, too expensive unless they were well-connected or wealthy vampires, and they harked over to Brooklyn to prey on middle class hipsters and lurk in the poorer areas where people disappeared all the time.  Bucky laughed every time he came across one of those teen novels glamorizing vampirism in Manhattan, because the reality of it was far less glamorous.  Take away all the _feeding on people_ parts and all the _evil scourge of the night_ parts of being a vampire, and what was left was a person with the same faculties they had while alive, and a lot less care for social mores like exchanging money.

 

There were far more vampires living in old mausoleums and abandoned subway stations than there were on the upper east side, that was for damned sure.  They couldn't make it in Manhattan and seemed to immediately think Brooklyn was their answer.

 

Not on his watch.  Manhattan could completely fall to vampire control so long as none of them stepped foot into Brooklyn.  Brooklyn was his.  Barneses had been living there long enough that they went to the first Brooklyn Excelsiors game in 1854.  The Barneses had been in Brooklyn then, and they sure as hell would be in Brooklyn after Bucky was gone and dead.

 

(Bucky had this weird feeling he'd someday come face to face with a long-dead relative risen from the grave.) 

 

(it could happen - that's how long the Barnes family had been in Brooklyn.)

  
If Bucky was being a total bitter Brooklynite about it, he was a new generation of Barnes.  He'd bought into the idea of hard work and education being the way to succeed in the borough he grew up in, and now he was barely surviving in a Brooklyn with higher rents and more inherent irony.  
  
But then, Bucky was the Vampire Slayer, so his life was defined in ironies.

 

~

 

Bucky worked from home on most days, which suited his schedule as much as possible when protecting Brooklyn from assholes and idiots with mystical powers was already a full time job.  Being a virtual fashion assistant wasn't exactly where he saw himself ending up at age 16, but he already had one calling, he didn’t expect his life to be 100% fulfilling. 

 

He was sitting in front of his computer waiting for a little chime to tell him his services were needed when a story on the news caught his attention.  It wasn't so much the story itself as it was the caption: _World War II Hero Risen from an Icy Grave_.

 

Bucky turned the sound up, giving the figure on screen a suspicious glance.  The words 'risen from the grave' never meant anything good, especially when mainstream media was talking about it.

 

He recognized the costume first.

 

Captain America squinted against the sun, raising his arm to shield his eyes.  He looked uncomfortable and angry as the camera zoomed in on his face.  "I don't have anything further to say," he snapped at the camera.  "You try to put me off guard by placing the sun directly in my eyes, drop sly insults about my team, and then question me about nuances for politics that have been developing since the Second World War, as though the three weeks since I've woken up are sufficient time to learn almost 70 years of history.  So when I say I have nothing further to say on the subject, I suggest you back up and let me pass."

 

Bucky's feet fell off his coffee table in shock.  "Holy shit," he said to the room at large.  "Captain America is a vampire."

 

Sun sensitivity?

 

Waking up after 70 years?

 

Totally, 100% a vampire.

 

(or, Bucky would concede, maybe a demon).

 

"Cool," he said, again to an empty room where no one could witness the glee he was currently experiencing as he grabbed a notebook and wrote across the top of a fresh page: 

 

**Ways to Slay Captain America (if he's a vampire or a demon from hell):**

#1, Bucky wrote with a cackle, _with a flag pole._

#2...  
  
~

 

Everything was in theory, really.  Bucky wasn't going to go out of his way to slay Captain America, not unless Captain America stepped foot in Brooklyn. Captain America was a national icon, and as far as Bucky could tell, the man actually did save lives.  

 

If one or two people disappeared every time Captain America saved hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of people, where did that come down in terms of morality?

 

Bucky did not want to be the person to answer that.  Captain America seemed to be spending all of his time in Manhattan fighting aliens and hanging out with Tony Stark, so with any luck it would never be up to Bucky to make that decision.

 

Let the Slayer in Manhattan take care of it.  
  
~

 

"The problem with that," Natasha informed him after Bucky told her his solution to the moral dilemma that was Captain America as a vampire, staring down at Bucky's kill-list and making a few annotations in the margins, "is that not only was Captain America created in Brooklyn, Steve Rogers was born here.  Brooklyn might be all that man has left."

 

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest.  "Are you saying that I'm going to have to slay Captain America because he considers this place home and will probably come back?"

 

"When the only four legged creature you've ever seen is a dog, it's hard to identify a cat for what it is."

 

"Both carnivores," he pointed out.

 

"So are a lot of things," Natasha responded with sage wisdom that made Bucky want to punch her in the face.

 

He sighed, running his hands through his hair.  "Are you saying that I might not have to slay Captain America at all because he might have the outward appearance of being my kind of problem, but he might be something new and different and _good_?" Bucky asked, giving the last word sarcastic emphasis.  “Or _old and different_ as the case may be.”

 

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that,” she told him in a mild tone.  “Your instincts are good, so rely on them."

 

Hers were better.  Bucky's instincts were hard-won through survival.  There had always been a certain edge that Natasha had, back when she was Slayer, that had been so much more.  It was part of the reason, Bucky thought secretly, that slayers were always women.  Women were born into a world where they needed to have an edge of awareness and perception of danger.  Bucky saved just as many people from being mugged and raped as he did from vampire attacks.  He was no longer surprised by what people would do to other people.

 

But he had been, once.  He’d needed to have his eyes opened. That was the difference.

 

~

 

Captain America came to live in Brooklyn two years after Bucky's initial realization, so Bucky pulled on his blackest scarf to help hide his face and went out into the cool autumn air to find the man.  Captain America was nothing if not conspicuous, leaving a trail of good deeds in his wake.  Bucky watched him pay forward a sandwich, help someone with their groceries, stop to play chess with one of the old chess masters in the park (and win jfc), and pause to help put a tricky valve back on a fire hydrant.

 

The last one made the man’s tight shirt so wet it was practically translucent.  Bucky was not the only one who noticed.  Captain America caused a minor fender bender when he turned to observe traffic, _and then_ he made his way over to make sure the occupants of the cars were ok.

 

Slayer sight was a fucking blessing sometimes.  He could see the beads of water from a block away, and he had a sudden sympathy for Grihhij Demons not being able to distinguish skin from clothing, because on Captain America there was barely a distinction.

 

Maybe that was his shtick, Bucky considered.  Lure people in with kindness and a nice face before eating them.  Bucky had never seen a vampire who could actually pull that one off.  It was new.

 

~

 

#4: paint a crossbow bolt red/white/blue

 

~

 

“What is he wearing that’s enchanted?” Natasha questioned, but it was more of an observation, something designed specifically to make him stop and actually consider the answer. “There has to be a reason he can be outside during the day.”

 

That was an excellent point, because as far as he could tell, Captain America was completely unadorned of any gaudy jewellery pieces.  Maybe someone had wised up and stopped enchanting such ugly and obvious bling.  But then, Bucky had gotten a pretty good look at the man’s chest during the Fire Hydrant Incident and so he could say with almost 98% certainty it wasn’t a necklace.  He’d have to get Captain America naked to know for sure that there wasn’t an anklet or a piercing of some kind hidden by his pants.

 

“I don’t know yet,” Bucky answered, and his fingers were quick around the knitting needles in his hands.  Deftness of finger mobility was important in slaying, when the one thing standing between Bucky and death was how rapidly he could weld a stake or put a bolt into his crossbow.

 

Bucky could do both of those things with ease.

 

He could also knit a sweater without really watching his fingers to make sure he didn’t drop a stitch.  Most Slayers were natural at it, but Bucky had some mobility issues that predated his calling.  Putting his hand around things he shouldn’t touch?  It was kind of a thing for him.

 

Natasha’s gaze was so direct, Bucky ended up watching what he was doing anyway, if only to avoid her eyes and the censure in them that he wasn’t thinking this out with more detail.  “What happened to ‘rely on my instincts?’”

 

“Is it your instincts or your stubbornness at this point?” Natasha questioned.  She was reassembling Bucky’s crossbow, movements deft and practiced.  Natasha was the only person Bucky would let close to any of his weapons, and even though he trusted that she knew what she was doing, he’d still have the compulsion to check them over after she left.

 

“Both,” Bucky admitted.  “But remember the Kj’orti demon in 2012?  No one believed that my Slayer Senses were tingling then, either.”

 

“You’re that sure in Captain America that you’re finally saying _I told you so_ for 2012?”

 

“I guess I am.”

  
~

 

It took Bucky two evenings of watching Captain America run at 3 am to understand the pattern.  It was easy enough to climb onto one of the fire escapes in the alley the Captain used as a shortcut to the park and wait for him.  Despite the warm front that moved in and made the fall air feel like the tail end of summer during the day, it was still cool enough at night that his dark jacket was just as much for warmth as it was for helping him blend into the shadows.  Bucky was good at going unnoticed.  He could hold still for long periods of time until the eye was tricked into seeing him as part of scenery, even in the rare cases where someone saw him move into position.  When Bucky was waiting for his own prey, he could be very, very patient.

 

What the Slayer abilities did was make it so his muscles and joints rarely tightened painfully, rarely cramped or fell asleep.  The Slayer abilities made it so that Bucky could strike in an instant after being inert for extended periods of time.

 

It took about twenty minutes before he heard Captain America approach.  The light quickness to his footsteps, the speed, the lack of the sound of hard breathing told Bucky that it was the right person before he had visual confirmation.  Bucky timed the approach perfectly, dropping down in front of Captain America as he rounded the corner.

 

Bucky landed in a crouch, straightening his posture as Captain America stopped with the suddenness of enhanced abilities.  Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes, aiming for an intimidating warning. "Brooklyn is my domain," he threatened.  "Someone should have warned you not to mess with the Brooklyn Slayer."

 

Captain America narrowed his eyes at Bucky, his jaw squaring. "I don't give into threats from the mob," he answered, brushing past Bucky to move further into the alley.  He was completely uncowed.  "I recommend not pushing me.  I didn't put up with it in the 30s and I sure as hell have a lot more strength these days."

 

"Mob," Bucky sputtered.  "I'm the Slayer."

 

Captain America's eyes narrowed in response.  "I'm watching you."

 

"I'm watching you first!" Bucky yelled after Steve's retreating back.  Jesus Christ.

 

~

 

#8: With a telephone cord (note: find a telephone with a cord??? Museum maybe?)

 

~

 

"Most of your kind doesn't bother with caffeine," Bucky said, sidling up next to Captain America in line at the cafe he typically frequented when trying to stay awake on evenings after he'd been awake for approximately 56 hours.  Slayer adrenaline could really only account for so much before he started hallucinating.  Was Captain America stalking him in return, now? 

 

It had been a while since one of the vampires had given Bucky a challenge. 

 

"Superheroes?" Steve questioned in confusion.  "What kind of slur are you implying?  Is it because I'm bisexual?" he said the word tentatively, like he wasn't sure about the proper pronunciation or context or had never said it out loud before. "I can assure you that we exist and we drink coffee."

 

"No," Bucky answered immediately in a hot tone before the question really hit him. 

 

Holy shit, what?  Sex with Captain America was actually on the table of life choices Bucky could make?  Most slayers had at least one fail-choice dalliance, but Bucky hadn't really met a vampire who was attractive enough to bypass the grossness of it all in his brain.

 

Until now.

 

Yeah, he could definitely get behind fucking Captain America.

 

But while Bucky was considering that, Captain America's tirade was picking up steam.  "I was told that people might have issue with it.  When I got out of the ice I was led to believe that things were better, but so far I've been disappointed.  The so-called 21st Century is... if I hear one more person explain to me why _better than the 40s_ is a valid measurement for progress, I'll...” he took a breath. “I have better things to do than listen to homophobic rhetoric."

 

"Hey!" Bucky answered, indignant.  "I'm gay and I would never... it's not a slur against your sexuality," which, _holy shit, Captain America was bi!_ Bucky was totally going to not think about that too closely.   "It's because you're a - you know - " Bucky continued, putting his fingers up to his mouth in an approximation of fangs.  "Blood sucker."

 

"I've earned everything I have," Captain America retorted and seemed to bristle with fury.  "Back in my day Brooklyn was a lot cheaper to live in, accounting for inflation, and I work hard to keep living here.  I never took the back-pay money if that's what you're talking about."

 

"Hey," Bucky found himself saying again, hands up to show he was unarmed, even with his wits.  "I ain't talking about money. You're preaching to the choir here.  Brooklyn is fucking expensive these days.  It's because you're a vampire."

 

"You're lucky there are families around or I would punch you for that," Captain America said in a low, furious tone.  

 

Okaaay then.  “No, pal, you’re the lucky one,” Bucky threatened back, looking around the café.  This place hadn’t been frequented by middle class families the last time he’d been there, had it?  Goddamn gentrification.

 

Bucky huffed but stayed in line for his coffee, because hell if he was going to allow Captain America to intimidate him into leaving without a caffeine boost.  Bucky was the one threatening him!  The Captain seemed to bristle at Bucky’s continued presence, standing in a reflective fury that broadcasted his anger at Bucky through the set of his shoulders.  Both of them stood there with sour expressions on their faces for a good fifteen minutes, too stubborn to leave.

 

Captain America got his coffee first, black like his undead soul, his expression a tight scowl when he turned at saw that Bucky was still watching him.

 

What a fucking asshole.

 

~

 

"What evil has been lurking around Brooklyn these nights?"  Sam’s question was mild.  They had a rapport, Sam and him, that went beyond all the times Bucky directed homeless vets to the VA before they became food to a vampire.  Bucky had helped save Sam ages ago, back when Natasha had been the Slayer – of course, Nat had done most of the heavy lifting in that instance, but Bucky had been there hiding behind the counter with Sam as she took out some kind of acidic demon that burned to touch.  He’d been the one who reached out with his left hand and grabbed the tentacle before it had wrapped around Sam’s neck.

 

So Bucky and Sam had a rapport.

 

"Captain America is bi," Bucky blurted out.

 

"What?" Sam questioned, choking on his tea.  "Have you been fucking Captain America rather than patrolling for vampires?"

 

Ha! That was laughable.  The man hated Bucky so much that Bucky had waved at him from across the street the other day and had gotten the middle finger in return.  He’d witnessed a mugger pull a gun on a little old lady in front of Captain America once and the man hadn’t even raised his voice.

 

"No!  He is a vampire! But he's also bi, and believe me I wish that didn't matter to me either, but now I'm considering making him my bad-decision fuck.  Each Slayer is entitled to embrace their dark side every now and again."

 

"Captain America is a vampire?" Sam questioned, and his face did that squinty thing he did when he didn't believe what he was hearing.  Since Sam was a pragmatic kind of guy, that happened with almost every conversation he had with Bucky that wasn't related to sports.  The day they met, Bucky had assumed that was just his face.

 

Bucky shrugged.  "I haven't caught him with his mouth red, so to speak, but how else do you explain his miraculous recovery from the ice?  Either he's a vampire or he's some kind of demon."

 

"Haven't you read the comic books?  A history book?"

 

"Propaganda to hide the truth," Bucky answered with a dismissive wave of his hand.  "He might not necessarily be evil.  That's happened, what?  Once? In the whole time I've been doing this."

 

"He might not be evil?" Sam echoed.

 

" _He might not be_ ," Bucky repeated.

 

"I hope he isn't," Sam observed.  "How are you going to get away with slaying Captain America?"

 

Bucky thought the more pressing concern was how he'd stop from trying to get into Captain America's pants if he wasn't an evil scourge of the night.  "Either way I'm going to put a piece of wood in him."  Bucky wiggled his eyebrows.

 

"I know you think you're being clever, but think about it seriously for a moment.  The man is a National treasure. The amount of people who will be up in arms over him disappearing is astronomical.  You'll have SHIELD breathing down your neck, because if they're aware he's a vampire, they definitely know the Slayer exists.  Tony Stark counts him as a close, personal friend.  Brooklyn loves him as his own.  Do you want to disappoint all of Brooklyn?"

 

"All of those hipsters are so over Captain America.  He was cool when it was 1945, but now it’s 2015 so they're _over it_."

 

“ _All those hipsters_?” Sam levelled a sarcastic look in his direction. "How many scarves are you wearing right now?"

 

"Three, but I'm cold so only one is for decoration."

 

Sam put his fingers up to his forehead like he was completely done with Bucky's shit.

 

~

 

"Why can't any of you assholes do this in Manhattan?" Bucky questioned, starring down from the top of a mausoleum in Green-Wood. There was a creepy stone cherub pressing against his calf, and Bucky was absolutely no Michelangelo painting, but he had the avenging stance down to an art-form.

 

(he didn't practice it.)

 

(he didn't.)

 

(a Slayer had to have a good stance with a sword, just saying, for slaying purposes.)

 

(not because it made him look cool.)

 

"Do what?" the nearest asshole questioned, and his hands with coated in...

 

Dirt.

 

"Jesus Christ," Bucky emphasized with a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes.  "Are you robbing that grave?"

 

"It's two in the morning and I have a shovel," Asshole #2 snarked back.  "What else would we be doing?"

 

"Buddy," Bucky answered.  "You have no fucking idea the shit you could be up to. I should just leave you to your fate, but I'm going to do you a favor and save your dumb lives by calling the cops."

 

"I wouldn't," Asshole #1 said, pulling out a gun and aiming it at Bucky.

 

What was it with people and guns?  Bucky blamed the government.

 

"Are you serious right now?"  Bucky questioned with a sigh.  "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

 

“Dead serious,” the thug answered, and then he shot Bucky.

 

Bucky didn’t really remember moving, working more on instinct and adrenalin than he was forethought, but he could feel the graze in his side scream with every movement he made.  It took a lot less time to disarm two dumb humans than it did to go up against a vampire, but Bucky was also looking to leave the two of them alive, so it took a lot more care.

 

In the end, both of them were tied up next to the grave and Bucky had his hand clamped over his side.  He could feel the blood against his fingers, the body temperature warmth of it making him second guess how badly he was bleeding until the cool air chilled his hand.  He fucking hated being shot.

 

"I gotta ask," Bucky said, holding the handgun steadily at the two graverobbers. Bucky had a secret that wasn’t something he was actually secretive about so much as he very rarely got to show it off in the context of his night job.  Bucky was hella good with projectile weapons.  He said as much to the thugs, but they didn’t seem as concerned by Bucky holding a gun than they should have been.  Bucky could kill someone with his little finger.  He deserved more respect than that.  "Did you need a body part for a spell? Were you resurrecting someone? Some _thing_?  What was the aim here?"

 

"We were going to pawn stuff off for cash."

 

Humans.  Seriously.

 

"Here?" Bucky questioned incredulously, gesturing around at the old gravestones around them. "No one here had money."

 

"It used to be a status thing," Asshole #2 pointed out.  "Live on Fifth Avenue and then rot over here on this side of the river."

 

"That makes sense," Bucky mused, playing dumb.  Bucky spent a fucking lot of time in Green-Wood.  Way too much.  He knew that a lot of the bags of bones used to be someone grand, based on their burials.  The richer they were, the more likely they had some vampire squatting in their mausoleum.  What Bucky had meant was this section of the cemetery, where the grave markers were small or absent entirely.  What dumb fucks these assholes were.  "You read that on Wikipedia?"

 

"Yes," the man answered defiantly. 

 

~

 

The thing of it was, as Bucky was holding that weapon and waiting for the cops to show up, his hand pressed tightly against his side as the bleeding eased faster than it would in a normal human, he was almost sure he could feel someone watching him.

 

When he turned to look, no one was there.

 

Bucky being watched was never a good thing.

 

~

 

#14: steal the shield. Decapitation from own weapon. Keep shield?? Paint black.

 

~  


Bucky had to twist his wrist, viciously ripping the stake out of the chest cavity.  He hated it when he missed the heart, when he had to retrieve his weapon and try again, because the first time the vampire was always taken by surprise, so used to being at the top of the food chain that it didn't even consider the possibility that Bucky would succeed.  The second time?  The second time was slightly harder, despite the wound he inflicted.  The vampire was more wary and now had the added fuel of anger.  He tried again quickly, not allowing it to have time to regroup.  This time his stake hit home, striking through the ribs and into the heart.  The man disintegrated violently, turning to ash around the stake in Bucky's hand.

 

He wasn't sure if he was more tired than he thought or if that bunch of vampires had been stronger than usual, but his muscles ached from being thrown against the side of a dumpster, the metal taking the shape of his shoulder.  Bucky stood from a crouch, breathing a bit harder than usual.  Stands of his hair had come loose from the top-knot he kept it in, tickling against the side of his face.

 

The poor victim groaned and turned over.  Bucky startled, rearing backwards and almost tripping over the crate he had managed to avoid while taking on five vampires.  There had been times, of course, when he'd gotten there just at the nick of time to save the human being fed on, but with five vampires gathered around the body and the way they seemed to have to work at drawing more blood from the arteries when Bucky had arrived, he'd written the man off for dead.

 

"Fuck," Bucky said with feeling as the man steadily exhaled.  Bucky watched him sit up with the sound of someone used to dealing with pain, fingers going to a jagged, open bite on his neck that was oozing blood down the hollow of his throat and soaking the collar of his shirt.

 

"Shit," the man said, looking up at Bucky with an expression that was far more resigned than panicked as he applied pressure to his own neck wound.

 

And that was when Bucky recognized him.  Slayer sight was fantastic at night, but there was city-dark and then there was back-corner-of-an-alley dark where it was difficult to tell blond hair from brown hair.  Anyone who had ever held a conversation with Captain America would never be able to mistake his voice (or the mullish set of his jaw) when he spoke.  So yes, Bucky recognised him.

 

Fuck and shit was right.

 

"Here," Bucky said, shrugging off his hoodie. He knelt beside the Captain and offered the wadded cotton gingerly, waiting for permission before touching the man. "Let me help with that."

 

Captain America nodded his consent, removing his fingers.  They came away coated in blood, and Steve seemed to be staring at it as Bucky quickly pressed his sweater against the wound.  It looked less ragged than it had a few moments before.  "I can't tell you," Bucky said conversationally, "how often the only thing that's stood between me and death is the fact I'm hard to hurt and heal quicker than normal."

 

Steve's hand came up to help Bucky hold the sweater in place - he was Steve now, Bucky couldn't keep him removed by referring to him as Captain America in his head.  "When you said," Steve started to say and then paused, the words slurring slightly.  "Vampire.  You meant..."

 

"Vampire," Bucky affirmed. 

 

"And you thought I was?"

 

"I still think you're something." Bucky didn't really believe in playing games like pretending he wasn't suspicious of someone.  "But I'm also not going to let you bleed out in the back of an alley."

 

Steve snorted like that was funny, far funnier than it deserved.  "It wouldn't be the first time I've almost died in this particular alley."

 

"You'd think you'd have learned, then," Bucky remarked.  "Can you hold this in place on your own? I want to check your other wounds."

 

Steve's neck had taken the brunt of the attack. The wounds in his thigh muscles had the added protection of his jeans, and the one on his wrist hadn't gone deep.  His thrashing made it more of a graze, and that followed with what Bucky had seen.  He'd wondered why it took five of them to hold the man down when one was usually sufficient. The other wounds seemed to knit in front of Bucky's eyes, blood staining the area around damage that didn't look severe enough for the amount of blood they’d spilled - he'd fought, it was obvious to Bucky's trained eyes, because usually a lot less blood was wasted with a vampire bite. "I wonder if your blood is more of a boost for them," Bucky mused out loud as he used the flashlight app on his cell phone to check Steve's pupils.  "I'd guess the one hardest to slay was probably the one who had the most to drink, but without knowing their baseline strength it's hard to tell."

 

Steve's eyes were watching him curiously as Bucky peeled back the wadded up hoodie to check the neck wound.  It wasn't good, but it was much better than it had been before the pressure.  

 

"The older they are, the stronger," Bucky explained to the unspoken question.  "Do you have someone you trust for me to call?  I can take you to the hospital."

 

"I live around the block," Steve answered in a dismissive tone, getting to his feet.  He swayed a bit, which was so normal it made Bucky jump to attention.  

 

Maybe Captain America was human after all.

 

He was definitely a liar.  Or was at least so used to understating things that he didn’t think much of underestimating how far away he lived.

 

A block? Laughable.

 

More like three and a half.

 

Normally that wouldn’t seem like a far distance, but they were so far from normal.  Steve seemed like the type of person who walked off most injuries, but he'd taken about 10 minutes to recover from the time Bucky found the vampires in the alley to the time when he stood.  If it took someone like Captain America 10 minutes to get to his feet, Bucky was sure that anyone else would be dead.

 

He was also sure that he wasn't going to let a disarmed national hero walk home alone, whether the man was a demon or not.  "Ok," Bucky said, pulling away from the wall he was leaning against.  "Let's go, then."

 

The expression on Steve's face was almost laughable, obviously realizing he was about to caught in a lie.  "I'm not an invalid," he answered with a stubborn expression.

 

"I never thought you were," Bucky responded, only just managing not to roll his eyes.  He totally thought that.  Jesus Fucking Christ, Steve Rogers and that chip on his shoulder.  Bucky barely knew the man and even he understood what was happening.  “Ease my conscience, though, won’t ya?”

 

Steve didn’t seem to be willing to do even that, if the way he walked out of the alley was any indication.

 

Bucky sighed, aggravated.  “Fine,” he hissed, following along behind Captain America like a sad little superhero parade.  Bucky was starting to think that maybe Captain America understood his own limits better than Bucky did, once the man walked three blocks without wavering once.  Then he just… didn’t.

 

Bucky watched as Steve sagged against the wrought iron fencing protecting a basement apartment from street level in the small residential area Steve lived in.  It was like the strings holding him up suddenly snapped.  “Ok,” Bucky said, stepping in before Captain America fell to the ground like a rag doll.  He had no idea if the man even knew Bucky had been following him, but he seemed to still conscious, which was a good sign. 

 

“I’ve been watching you, yanno,” Captain America slurred as Bucky tucked his fingers into the man’s pockets looking for his keys.  Dragging Captain America half a block after going up against five vampires wasn’t as hard as it used to be when Bucky had first started Slaying.  He wondered if his talents aged the same way a vampire’s did.  He’d tried to give them back to Natasha in the beginning, but she’d just laughed and told him she was enjoying her freedom.  Bucky understood that a lot more now that they’d had time to settle into his bones.  It was worrisome, thinking about the implications.  There was a weight to it that he carried around every day that not even his superior strength was equipped to handle.

 

“Have you?” Bucky questioned, snagging the keychain out of Steve’s pocket while keeping the man upright.  He wondered what Steve had seen.  Did he think Bucky a good man?

 

He nodded solemnly in response to Bucky’s question.  “I didn’t understand,” he said in a quiet tone.

 

“That’s ok,” Bucky responded, swinging Steve into his apartment.  He turned on the light, though he suspected neither of them needed it.  Steve remained quiet, but he moved his feet forward when Bucky navigated him through the small space.  Finding the couch was intuitive.  There were only so many places it could be.  It wasn’t because Bucky had been peeping in through windows.  Nope.  “I’m going to get you something to bring your blood sugar up.”

 

“I didn’t understand,” Steve repeated.

 

By the time Bucky was back with a juice box and a bag of trailmix – two things that told Bucky that maybe Captain America needed fast energy boosts at a constant rate – Steve was sitting up and blinking in the strong light.

 

Damn, the man regrouped fast.  “Here,” Bucky said, pushing the snacks at him.  “Or are you still too stubborn to accept help?”

 

Being scowled at by someone drinking from a bendy straw was a pretty hilarious situation.  “Are you sure there’s no one I can call?” he questioned.

 

~

 

 Captain America was watching him fight again, but this time Bucky thought it carried more appreciation than it had any of the other times.  He looked up right after pinning a vampire to meet Steve’s eyes.  “Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

 

Steve shrugged.  “You would, in my position.”

 

That was probably true.

 

"So," Steve started, tugging on the soft cotton wound around Bucky's neck.  His mouth was turned up into a slight grin.  "This seems to be insufficient neck protection from sharp teeth."

 

"It's a scarf," Bucky responded in a helpless manner.  "It's for warmth."

 

"I understand why you need it," Steve responded.  "Your shirt is so thin it can't be sufficiently insulating."

 

Exactly why Bucky needed it.

 

"At least it doesn't look painted on," Bucky retorted.  "I'd tug at your shirt for emphasis in return, but I'm worried it couldn't take the extra stress."

 

Steve hummed in response.  "Are the leather pants also for warmth?"

 

"Those are for protection," Bucky answered.

 

"Or," Steve continued, his mouth curling into a teasing smirk as he walked backwards towards the park entrance.  "Is it because you know how good they are for your legs?"

 

Well, it wasn’t like he _knew_ he’d have an audience.

 

Suspected, sure.

 

Knew? Not so much.

 

"They're for protection!" Bucky yelled as Steve sauntered away.  "Steve, are you flirting with me?  Don't walk away from me when I asked you a question.  Do you know what else these pants are great for? My ass! You should be the one watching me walk away!  You're really missing out!"

 

"Desperate," the vampire pinned beneath Bucky’s knee pointed out.

 

"Shut up," Bucky answered.  "That was flirting, right?"

 

"Defi..." the vampire started to say just as Bucky's stake pierced his heart.

 

~

 

 #34: With my dick.


	2. Slaying Waits for No Man

Steve stood still and surprised, looking down at the dust at his feet.  Bucky could remember his first vampire, back when he was 100% human, and that sensation of give as the stake pushed through breastbone and tissue and into the heart – the way they almost exploded outward as they disintegrated, dust to ashes, ashes to dust, vampire to something you had to chase around with a Swiffer.

 

So many people focused on Captain America’s fighting style being shaped by his weapon of choice and his personal morals, but they forgot the brutality behind his strength and his need to protect.  They didn’t realize that Steve was the shield standing between people and those who would cause them harm and that shield was very human and sometimes very angry about innocent people being harmed.

 

Captain America with a stake in his hand, staring down at the remnants of a vampire, looked very familiar.

 

It looked a lot like Natasha, back when he watched her in action, and he was sure it looked a lot like he did, if he could see himself.  Steve had the grace of a Slayer.  He was built for brute force, but he’d turned all that muscle into the kind of weapon that could gracefully wheel away from a foe just as easily as he could be the aggressor. 

 

Bucky was smiling when Steve wiped the dust off his hands and handed Bucky the stake with a downward curl of his mouth. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed to his silent assessment, walking over to the pile of belongings left in the corner.  He rifled through them and pulled two twenties out of a jacket pocket.  Huh.  Petty cash.  Someone had either actually made an effort to blend in or were really fucking new at this.  “Treat you to a beer for your first?” he asked with a grin, holding up the money. 

 

Steve frowned, looking at Bucky and then down at the pile of dust at his feet, already scattering from the small breeze coming through the doorway.  By morning there would be nothing left.  “That might belong to someone.”

 

“It might,” Bucky agreed.  “It did.  But since the only one who knows is now two shades of dead, we can either let him treat us for our efforts or leave it.”

 

Bucky was familiar with the moral dilemma, but it had been a long time since it concerned him.  Steve was looking at him like he didn’t know him, like he was witnessing something that made his estimation of Bucky plummet.  Considering that he’d thought Bucky was a hitman the first time they met, Bucky shouldn’t really be concerned about losing face with Steve Rogers, but he found that it did matter to him. 

 

But then again…

 

“Now listen,” Bucky started, raising a finger towards Steve.  “We can absolutely go find someone in need and give them this $40 and then I’ll treat you with my own money, because I already offered and I’m a man of my word.  But do you know how much I make a year from my day job?  Around fifteen thousand. I don’t get paid for keeping the world safe like you do.  It’s a full-time job and then I have to go to work in the morning just to survive, so unless I supplement myself when the opportunity arises, I can’t afford to live.  So you’re absolutely welcome to take a morally superior stance on this, but you’re not going to shame me for doing what I need to.”

 

Steve was frozen with a subdued, almost chastened expression on his face.  Bucky had an idea that didn’t happen often.  There was also a mulish tilt to his chin.  “During the War—”

 

“I’m not looting,” Bucky interrupted him.  “I don’t keep things that clearly have an owner or that look like family heirlooms or stolen goods.  I have a friend who helps me track people down, if I find something that belongs to someone, but loose cash?  Fuck,” he said, frustrated, running his hand through his hair and staring at Steve, clearly ready for a confrontation.

 

“Ok,” Steve answered.  “Let’s get a beer.”

 

The walk was awkward, silent and stilted in a way that was clearly uncomfortable.  Bucky felt like scuffing his toes against the sidewalk in a sheepish shuffle, even though he wasn’t at fault. There weren’t even any leaves for him to crunch through, the sidewalk completely bare.  They needed an ice breaker of some kind, or both of them sitting there silently over beers was going to be worse, especially since neither of them were the type of person to back out when things were awkward.  Well, Bucky was, but he wasn’t going to let Steve Rogers out-stubborn him.  He hadn’t in line for coffee, and he wouldn’t now.  

 

“Come here,” he finally said to Steve, pulling him off the sidewalk and towards a copse of trees.  “My fav things about autumn are the leaves,” he explained, deliberately shuffling his feet through the pile that had naturally fallen in a ditch.

 

“The leaves?” Steve questioned, looking skeptical. 

 

“Yes.”  It was a simple answer.  Bucky leaned down and picked up a handful of them, the scent of damp soil and decay a comfort.  He breathed deeply before tossing them at Steve.  Even with slayer strength they still arced in the air and fell short of his face.  “Take a moment.”

 

There were a few benefits of being a Slayer, and one of them was Bucky could play in the leaves in the middle of a Brooklyn park without worrying about needles or any of the various dangers that his mother had been concerned about when he was a child.  Bucky’s biggest worry was getting a handful of dog poop.  He was tempted to take off his shoes and feel the cool, chilled leaves beneath his toes and the different textures between the dry, top layer and the older, wetter bottom.

 

Steve looked at Bucky and there was a complicated expression on his face, indecisive and confused and hopeful, and nothing Bucky could actually interpret.  Finally, Steve inhaled and tension seemed to go out of his shoulders that Bucky hadn’t even known he’d been holding.

 

“Ok,” Steve said, walking over with all the casualness of a man who had made up his mind to do something he wasn’t sure he wanted to do.

 

He scooped up a pile of leaves to throw at Bucky, and Bucky’s heartrate was drumming in anticipation of Steve Rogers letting down his hair a little and having fun.  He shot Steve his best mischievous grin and ducked, getting ready to tackle Steve to the ground.  It would be a good judge of whether or not Bucky could take the man, and he was itching to know how Slayer strength went up against Super Serum.  “Show me what you got,” Bucky prompted.

 

“More than you can handle.”

 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Bucky promised, very deliberately dragging his eyes from Steve’s face down his body.  “Oh,” he finished, staring at Steve’s feet.

 

And it wasn’t because of his shoe size.  Bucky had disproved that myth a long time before – except in the instances when it wasn’t a myth. 

 

Both of them paused and looked down at Steve’s feet.  It didn’t take enhanced senses to see the hand Steve had exposed.  The skin was pale and waxy and had clearly been there for a while.

 

Well. Shit.

 

Bucky sighed because finding dead bodies wasn’t even a rarity in his life.  He carefully moved over so he could crouch next to where he estimated the face to be and gently brushed leaves away.  “I’d guess about 4 days, considering the weather recently,” he decided, looking up at Steve as he took out his phone.  “Welp. This has been fun but you should go.”

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

What a stubborn asshole.  No wonder they got along.  “You’re not helping any.  The cops and the press will be more interested about why you’re here than the dead body in the corpse of trees.”

 

Steve looked unimpressed by his pun.  He looked unimpressed by more than Bucky’s pun.

 

“I’ll text you when I get home.  We’ll have to reschedule the drinks.”

 

“I don’t like this.”

 

“Neither do I, buddy,” Bucky answered, looking down at the body.  “But I don’t think this is one of mine.”  When he looked back up at Steve, his hands were in his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears.

 

“Text me.”

 

x.x.x.

 

 **Bucky:** How’s my fav vampire?

 

 **Steve:** Alive.

 

 **Bucky:** Yes and we’re all very grateful. I saw the booty shot on the news last night. *peach emoji*

 

 **Steve:** Is that relevant?

 

 **Bucky:** Depends.  Still want to have drinks with me?

 

x.x.x.

 

The art of dressing for a date that might not be a date but might also be a pre-date but really might not be anything was to not worry about it too much.  Bucky wasn’t very adept at not over-thinking his status with Steve Rogers.  The man had come right out and said he was bisexual to Bucky.  He liked Bucky’s legs in his leather pants.  Probably.

 

None of that meant that getting a beer to celebrate Steve slaying a vampire was anything other than getting a beer.

 

So Bucky put on his tightest jeans, the ones with the spandex ratio that still allowed him to kick a vampire under 5’8” in the head, and his favorite shirt du jour that hadn’t yet been ripped or bled on or worn on any other failed first dating attempts.

 

People didn’t seem to like it when Bucky had to leave to go stab someone with something sharp.  They took exception.

 

He didn’t blame them.  He had the kind of face and body people said yes to before they spent five minutes with him.

 

Unfortunately, that shirt was the black sweater that said _Slay, Girl, Slay_.

 

 **Bucky:** Do you think Steve Rogers gets irony?

 

 **Natasha:** I think he doesn’t care what you wear.

 

Damn.  Obviously neither did Natasha.

 

 **Bucky:** I’ll have you know he said he likes my legs.

 

 **Bucky:** I think.

 

 **Bucky:** I’ll have to wrap them around his hips and see.

 

 **Bucky:** Nat do you know what I just realized???

 

 **Bucky:** Nat!

 

 **Bucky:** NAT WE’RE BOTH REALLY STRONG DO YOU THINK WE’LL ACCIDENTALLY FUCK THE HEADBOARD THROUGH THE WALL?

 

Oh man, Bucky might actually kill Steve Rogers with his dick.

 

 **Natasha:** I think if you ever get laid again it’ll be because you’ve started delving into dark arts and made yourself a sex partner.

 

 **Bucky:** Worst.

 

He was so nervous by the time he’d walked from his shit hole of an apartment towards the bar they’d agreed to meet at that he was chewing on one of the frayed corners of his scarf.  He had to put his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket to stop the tremor in the left one from acting up. 

 

His eyes adjusted quickly to the ambient lighting in the bar, and he scanned the room quickly for Steve, finding him slouched in front of the bar, his posture looking anything but Captain America’s.  Bucky started walking over, enjoying the way Steve’s eyes settled on his approach.

 

“Hey,” he said, pulling off his jacket and unwinding his scarf from his neck.  He wasn’t sure if Steve had ever seen him without one, but Bucky didn’t feel the need to hide the scars from him and he also didn’t need to sit in the hot, stifling room while wearing about 3 pounds of polyester. 

 

There was something vulnerable about it, like shedding off his armor and allowing Steve to see who he was beneath it.  There was no shame in the bite marks on him – they were a clear reminder of Bucky’s survival.  The ones that happened since he became a slayer eventually faded and disappeared, but the ones that pre-dated it?  Well, Bucky’s body was a map of signs of his loyalty to his friends.

 

“You look nice,” Steve said and then closed his mouth abruptly.  Ha! He totally hadn’t meant to do that.  It made Bucky grin at him, sharp and pleased.

 

“Thank you,” Bucky said.  Steve had seen him in thin shirts and leather pants.  Bucky hadn’t dressed up for their meet-up.  He’d played it casual, and based on the dress shirt Steve was wearing, he might have played it a bit too casual.  “You do too.”

 

It was interesting watch the man who put on a spandex uniform regularly blush.  It was one of Bucky’s favorite things about Steve.  “I wasn’t sure how to dress,” he admitted, a lot braver than Bucky was.  “So I took my mother’s advice to wear something nice.  That’s still done?”

 

“It is, unless you’re like me and over-analyze everything and settle on playing it cool.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”  Steve brushed his fingers along the sleeve of Bucky’s sweater.  “It’s everything about you that I like, especially your sense of humor.”

 

Bucky might be the one blushing now.  There were no good excuses for the way his face felt a little hot.  The overhead lights were dim.  He’d taken off his autumn gear.  Steve had barely touched him.  Bucky ducked his head so Steve wouldn’t see, and then reached up to put his hair back up in a bun, making eye contact with the bartender until the man came over to him.  “I’ll have a pint of what’s on tap and pay for whatever he’s having,” he said and then gestured to Steve, waiting for him to finish ordering the same before he pulled out his wallet and handed over a few bills.

 

“Was everything ok with the police the other night?” Steve asked after frowning in consternation at the amount of money Bucky had handed over.

 

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged.  “I used my go-to lie that I’m part of a LARP group.”

 

“That makes sense.  Explains the stake and being out at night.”  It was more of a surprise that Bucky _didn’t_ have to explain LARPing to Steve.  “Tony likes to use it as a joke when we all train together,” he explained as the bartender returned with their pint glasses.

 

Of course Tony Stark would take away Bucky’s fun of explaining LARPing to Steve.

 

“Let’s grab a table so we can talk more privately,” Bucky suggested, already getting to his feet to start across the room when a couple moved to leave.  It was a skill anyone in the city developed if they wanted to eat anywhere, ever.

 

“Are you courting me?” Bucky questioned, narrowing his eyes when Steve pulled out his chair for him and promptly turned pink around the edges.  Steve on a date was fucking adorable, he decided, placing his pint glass on the table and taking a seat.  Steve hovered for a moment with uncertainty and then moved away, not pushing Bucky’s chair in for him.  He was tempted to call Steve on it, but there was something earnest and endearing about him that Bucky couldn’t bring himself to ruin the first time they did something in public.

 

“Courting?” Steve repeated in that deep tone that made Bucky think of dirty things, especially when it was accompanied by lip quirk that said Steve was over his embarrassment.  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

 

“What do you want to call it?”

 

Steve gave a half shrug.  “I like spending time with you.  You’re normal.”

 

“Normal?” Bucky echoed incredulously, snorting loudly and almost choking on his beer.  “The last time we tried to get drinks we were interrupted by a dead body, and neither of us even blinked. There’s vampire dust on my shoes.  Layers of it.  You thought I was a hitman or a serial killer when we first met, and that is so much more accurate of a description of me than _normal_ is.”

 

“But that is normal – to both of us – and it’s not just that. You grew up here,” Steve gestured out the window and towards the Brooklyn street.  “You protect the area like it’s your own – home is important to you, it means something to you beyond your house and your neighborhood, and that’s a rare thing to find these days.  You work hard at both of your jobs and you know what it’s like to never be totally off the clock.  And yet, here you are sitting in this bar drinking beer and asking if I’m courting you after you were the one who invited me on this date.”

 

“So it is a date?” Bucky observed, taking a drink of his pale ale. 

 

Steve smiled.  “It is.  You’re right, maybe normal isn’t the right word for it because you deliberately hold on to small pieces of normalcy that you can manage, including the way you dress. I don’t know what normal is anymore.  Adapting has been hard since I woke up and it’s been getting better the longer I work at it, but I’m 29 years old and I’m Captain America.  Some days I’m not allowed to even consider being Steve Rogers.”

 

“Holy shit,” Bucky breathed.  “You’re only 29?”  He was quickly doing math in his mind of what that meant Steve’s age had been when he was turned into Captain America.  It was a lot of responsibility to put on the shoulders of someone that young, though Bucky knew it happened all the time, especially in war.  Look at Nat.  Look at him.

 

“So far people seem to think that my age matters a lot less than the title, and they’re not wrong, but I already feel so old because of the circumstances of my life. I just want to be 29 for a while.  Sometimes.  That’s a lesson I feel like I can learn from you.”

 

Bucky didn’t know what to say.  It was flattering.  Really.  “Your solution to that is trying to date a guy whose life expectancy ended like three years ago?” Bucky questioned in disbelief. 

 

Steve looked at him, considering. “My solution is to try to date a guy who understands what it means that every day brings new risks and that they could die at any moment, but who hasn’t lost the ability to just… be himself.”

 

It was sad to think that Steve probably hadn’t been encouraged to be himself in a long time.

 

“Well then.  To youth, learning new things, and to your first of maybe many stakings,” Bucky said, raising his glass in a toast.

 

“Honestly, I’m not sure how much I like it as a weapon. It offers very little in terms of protection between the vampire and your hand.”

 

“It’s not a shield,” Bucky conceded.  “I’m sure you’ve already calculated how to go up against a vampire with it but I’d like to see you use it to decapitate a vamp someday.  The stake is meant for stealth, and in modernity it’s meant to be something easily tucked away.  I’ve been patted down by the police and they’ve raised their eyebrows at it, and confiscated it as a weapon, but it didn’t make them think I was on my way to a gang war.  Not like carrying my sword would.”

 

“A sword?”  Sarcastic eyebrow raise included with that tone.

 

“That’s the other reason why Slayers are trained with the stake.  If you can effectively use one, you can also compensate if you’re suddenly weaponless.  A tree branch.  A piece of crate.  A pencil – though finding a good old wooden pencil isn’t as easy as you think, these days.  I was in a school about three months ago and everything around me was mechanical.  I thought I was going to kick it for lack of a HP.”

 

“What else are you trained in?” Steve asked, and he sounded genuinely curious.  Bucky looked at him, and he knew that if Steve was anything other than what he looked like on the surface, telling him what Bucky was capable of was a stupid decision.

 

He shrugged.  “All kinds of stuff.  Hand to hand.  Swords.  Staffs.  A bit with knives, but I very rarely find myself using them.  A crossbow.”

 

Steve was outright grinning now.  “All of those predate my training.  In 1943.”

 

“I know, being a Slayer is practically medieval.  I can use a gun, too.  It’s impractical against vampires.  Believe me, wooden bullets aren’t really a thing.”  What Bucky held back was that no matter how much he tried to skew the results by practicing more with all of his other weapons, it was the gun that still felt the most comfortable in his hand. It was the long-range rifle that gave him a thrill of accomplishment each time he hit a target that seemed impossible.  Against a vampire it was more than improbable, it was useless, and so he kept it a well-guarded secret.  His one ace.

 

Bucky didn’t like being judge and executioner.  He especially didn’t like to play that role with other humans, even if they were doing worse things than any vampire ever had the imagination for.

 

That didn’t mean he never had.  “Do you want another?” he asked Steve.

 

“$12 for a draft of beer,” Steve grumbled, elbows the table as he hunched over the last of his drink.  “It’s ridiculous.  I can’t even get drunk.”

 

Bucky grinned and tapped the top of his beer against Steve’s.  “It’s about the company, then,” he said.  “About going through the motions of being normal.  It’s even normal to gripe about the price, old man. Cheer up, we could be paying $24 in Manhattan.”  He didn’t bother mentioning all the places in Brooklyn the same held true.

 

x.x.x.

 

“I had a good time,” Bucky said, his left hand held in a tight fist in his jacket pocket.  He smiled at Steve, soft and sure, despite feeling anything but, and moved in for a kiss.

 

He realized, standing there, with his lips pressed against Steve’s, that it wasn’t a kiss.  Steve hadn’t moved or hadn’t breathed the entire thirty seconds Bucky’s mouth had been against his.  Bucky pulled back so quickly he almost tripped over an uneven piece of sidewalk.  “Are you ok?” he blurted out.  “I’m sorry.  I thought we were….?”

 

“I…” Steve answered, blinking like he was coming out of a trance. 

 

Bucky waited patiently.  He wasn’t the best at it, staring at Steve like he expected him to talk a bit too intently, but he was trying his best. 

 

“I like you,” Steve said finally.

 

“But…?”

 

Steve looked down at the sidewalk and visibly breathed.  It was on the tip of Bucky’s tongue to reassure him when Steve’s head jerked up and he looked at Bucky directly, brave and stubborn, with no hint of fear.  “I’ve never been good at this.  Every time I’ve been kissed has been…” then he trailed off and frowned.

 

“Been kissed?” Bucky echoed, right down to his eyebrows pulling together.  It was telling.  A huge flashing arrow.  Steve winced at what he clearly hadn’t meant to reveal.  “It’s ok, you can tell me when you feel comfortable, and I only want you to kiss me when you feel comfortable too.  I won’t try again until you do.”

 

“Oh.”  He sounded a little disappointed.  It was cute and definitely promising.

 

x.x.x.

 

 **Bucky:** I think Steve might be a virgin.

 

 **Natasha:** I think you’re an idiot if you expected otherwise.

 

x.x.x.

 

Fuck his life.  Seriously.  Fuck. His. Life.

 

Bucky was standing in the middle of a Halloween rave two days before Halloween wearing a ratty old pair of JUICY velour track pants that probably once belonged to NATASHA.  He’d gotten a text from one of the youth shelters he sometimes volunteered with that something evil and predatory was lurking outside before he’d changed out of his lounge clothes for patrol.  That had turned out to be an ordinary human, though the rest of the descriptor was probably accurate, and Bucky had ended up calling the police.

 

And giving a statement to the police in these pants?

 

Kinda sexy and flirty, but that wasn’t the point.  It was a whole lot less awkward than walking through a party that was mostly teenagers who hadn’t learned their limits yet and looking like he was some kind of weird predator himself. 

 

 **Bucky:** Want to go to a rave?

 

 **Sam:** Fuck no.

 

 **Sam:** Do you need backup?

 

 **Bucky:** Yes.

 

 **Sam:** Real backup?

 

 **Bucky:** No. I just don’t want to be the oldest person here.

 

 **Sam:** Fuck off.

 

He didn’t even bother trying with Nat and just squared his shoulders and moved into the hot crush of dancing bodies. He subtly staked a vampire as he moved across the dance area, relying on the flashing strobe lights and the E that was being passed around in bulk to cover the way the vampire disintegrated in front of witnesses.

 

Natasha had once told him that her original Watcher had given her a tip that it was easy to spot vampires trying to blend in because they wore clothes that were out of date.  Maybe that worked in the 90s, but the fucking hipsters ruined that tell.

 

And Bucky got the irony ok?  His hair was up in a messy bun and he was wearing his biggest scarf and a blazer instead of a jacket.  He _got_ it.

 

That didn’t mean he didn’t feel fucking ancient walking through a group that was 90% made up of kids under the legal drinking age all high as fuck.  He rolled his eyes as one of them puked and debated whether he should call the police for their own safety.  He felt like something was watching him as his eyes narrowed in on the last vampire he sensed and he moved quickly through the crowd, staking the guy without giving a fuck that he was standing up on the platform the DJ was playing from.

 

The crowd cheered like they’d just seen a special effect.  Bucky bowed and melted back into the shadows like the black-hearted ancient being he was.  He was laughing as he rounded the back of the warehouse and came face to face with Captain America.

 

“What the fuck!” he said, actually jumping in surprise and then hating himself a little that he was startled by someone wearing a giant A on their forehead.  “Are you stalking me?”

 

“I asked you where you were.”

 

True.

 

“You told me you were here.”

 

Also true.

 

“You also mentioned being old as balls.  I had to Google the reference.”

 

“It’s a meme.”  Speaking of tells, if he didn’t know who Steve Rogers was he’d probably be staking him right now.  He never got an accurate reading off Steve from his slayer senses, and sometimes that was good enough to make him concerned.  Things that used to be human had a certain tang to them that registered as human and something else.  He knew what vampires felt like because they were the most common.

 

Steve? Human.  And something else.

 

“I’m behind on memes,” Steve said, and there was something about how he was keeping three feet between them at all times, even as Bucky walked through the warehouse district, that made Bucky wonder if Steve was here to break off their tentative understanding.

 

“Even people who spend 24/7 on the internet are behind on memes.  They come and go in the span of a good night’s sleep.”  Which Bucky hadn’t had since 2007.

 

The sarcastic expression on Steve’s face said he’d caught that as well. 

 

“Ok,” Bucky paused next to the pier.  It smelled like dead fish and garbage and oil.  He’d seen tourists try to swim off it once.  Like any other jaded Brooklynite he yelled at them for being fucking stupid and it had made him smile all day.  “If you’re going to break off our understanding I’d rather you do it in this hellhole.”

 

“I don’t want to break it off.  I just wanted to see you.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“And to tell you that I’m leaving on a mission in a few hours, so I might not make our date on Halloween.”

 

That was more like it.  “Texting a change of plans is an acceptable social more,” Bucky pointed out, aiming for teasing and falling flat.  “Not that I don’t like seeing you.”

 

“I wanted to…” Steve started and then took another step away from Bucky.

 

Ah.

 

Ahhhhhhhhh.

 

Steve was being a fucking chicken.

 

“I’m super intimidating,” Bucky agreed.  “In my irony track pants I wear while stuffing ice cream into my face so often they smell vaguely like vanilla.”

 

“You have no idea,” Steve answered him in that deep flirty tone he had that made butterflies gather in the pit of his stomach and reminded Bucky about how he didn’t care that he had no idea what Steve was, he was going to fuck him until they were both exhausted, which was seriously a feat. 

 

If Steve ever got there, permission-wise.

 

Jesus, was he going to _slay_ Steve Rogers with his dick.

 

“I watched you,” Steve continued.  “The way you moved through the crowd like you were dancing yourself.”

 

“On my murderous spree.”

 

“Exactly.  Protecting all those people and they never even looked at you and saw what you were doing.”

 

Bucky shrugged and tried not to grin.  Steve definitely got turned on by competent murder sprees.  Note to self.  Bucky was kind of amazing at competent murder sprees.  He was still alive and everything he’d ever came up against wasn’t.  It made him feel giddy that being a good enough slayer to survive was finally giving him something in return.

 

“I think I like these pants better than the leather ones.”

 

“Ah ha!” Bucky crowed, delighted.  “I knew I’d eventually find something that made you notice my ass.”

 

“Noticing you isn’t a problem.”

 

Bucky beamed at him like Steve was the most flirtatious, flattering person he’d ever met.  In a way it was true.  Bucky had this man who wasn’t certain enough in himself to kiss him admitting that his dumb JUICY pants turned him on.

 

Maybe.

 

Something like that.

 

Should he clarify?  That was weird if he had to think about it.  “Wanna finish my patrol with me?”

 

“I should go, I have a plane to catch.”

 

“Go save the world.  Leave Brooklyn to me.”

 

“It’s a deal,” Steve said, walking backwards and keeping his eyes trained on Bucky before he gave him a dorky, sloppy salute that made Bucky disbelieve that the man had ever actually been in the military, and turned to jog away.  Bucky didn’t even pretend that he didn’t stand there and watch Steve Rogers’s retreating form.  If Steve could stare at him slaying in the middle of a rave, Bucky could watch Steve’s ass when he was deliberately moving away from him.

 

x.x.x.

 

His Halloween was completely booked, from waking up and working for six hours to supervising trick or treating to segueing directly into a patrol.

 

Bucky debated his costume choices and then took out his ugliest hipster shirt, stuck a pair of plastic fangs in his mouth, and called it a day.  He’d worn the same thing the year before to Nat’s party and she’d thrown him out. 

 

By the time he was on patrol, well after midnight and prepared to call it an all-nighter, he knew something was wrong in Brooklyn.

 

Something was _off_.

 

Bucky wrapped his arm around his waist in a protective stance, trying too hard not to shiver.  It wasn’t cold out, not really, not temperature-wise, but there was something about the night that put a chill down his spine.  Halloween wasn’t really known for being the creepiest of all nights.  The most reprehensible of vampires might prey on unsupervised children, and demons without a chance of passing as human might take the opportunity to walk down the street without eliciting screaming in their wake, but Halloween was the one night of the year where most of the things Bucky slayed could show their true faces and be accepted.  There was an unspoken rule somewhere that was very rarely crossed: don’t ruin the fun for others by starting a slaughter.

 

The night felt like someone was planning on breaking that rule and breaking it in a big way.

 

Bucky’s patrol usually took him through Green-Wood and Prospect Park on foot.  Having a car in the city was impractical because nothing said ‘competent slayer’ quite like not being able to find a parking space while humans got terrorized.  But in a location as large as Brooklyn, he needed to have a way to move from the Naval Yards to Coney Island without standing around waiting for a train.  Sam had once suggested it was too bad Bucky couldn’t grow wings.

 

Bucky was glad that wasn’t a possibility, if only for the fact that he had no idea what to wear with a set of wings.  All his clothing would have to have a Velcro back, and that would just be awkward to explain.

 

Stripper, maybe?

 

So he’d parked where he could and walked the rest of the way on foot.  There was a silence to the night that felt heavy, and his Slayer Senses were quiet in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up in worry.  The absence of a threat tickled his paranoia in a way that would have Sam frown in concern and make Nat ask pointed questions about whether he just wanted a good fight.

 

It wasn’t that.  He didn’t think.

 

“I thought I might find you here.”

 

Bucky heard the voice before he noticed Steve approaching, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that, all things considered.  He hadn’t heard Steve’s footsteps across the grass, but then Bucky could rarely hear Steve when he was trying to be stealthy, and he’d noticed that sometimes Steve didn’t do it on purpose.  His instincts kicked in when he was in a quiet space, especially when he was on guard for vampires.  And whether or not Steve was quiet, vampires seemed to be attracted to his blood like a huge white beacon on a dark, stormy night. 

 

It was amazing Steve Rogers had lasted in Brooklyn as long as he had without being attacked.

 

Steve was wearing jeans and a hoodie, and looked like a normal person.  A normal person carrying two cups of coffee, which in Bucky's books made him more of a hero than Captain America was.

 

“I went to the coffee place that seems to be everywhere and asked for their most popular drink,” Steve explained as Bucky took the Starbucks cup he was being offered. 

 

Bucky should have expected the taste of the Pumpkin Spice Latte before it crossed his taste buds.  He tried not to wince out-right to Steve, and it wasn’t that Bucky hated the taste (or really even liked it), it was that he’d suffered way too much ribbing about his coffee addiction from Natasha over the years to ever be able to take the most popular Starbucks drink in his hand and not feel like he was falling the last few feet down the hole.

 

“You don’t like it,” Steve observed.

 

Bucky shrugged casually and continued his walk through the cemetery.  Usually he hurried through, listening attentively for sounds that didn’t belong, but with Steve by his side, Bucky slowed his walk with the full knowledge that no matter how fast he went, the man beside him would be able to keep up.  “I like coffee,” he said, “and I like that you thought to bring me some.”

 

Steve’s mouth quirked up at the corner.  “Last time I saw you getting coffee you got some frothy, sugary monstrosity.  I thought one frothy, sugary coffee was another.”

 

“Look, I feel like you’re judging me, but do you know how much sleep I get? Between the coffee and the sugar, I can always last a few more hours before being out on patrol becomes a danger to my health.”  Bucky took a shortcut across a row of graves, bemused when Steve carefully picked his way around actual plots with people buried beneath them.  He wondered if it was politeness, superstition, or some kind of hint to whatever sort of creature Steve was. 

 

What was it that couldn’t step on consecrated ground?  Witches?

 

Was he confusing Slaying facts with _Hocus Pocus_?

 

“I understand how difficult it can be to have to weigh your own levels of exhaustion against who might die if you give into it.  I haven’t slept a full night since the 40s.”

 

Bucky glanced into the mausoleum that usually had a new nest developing in it every few weeks.  It had remained empty for the past month and he frowned, taking another step into the room.  The chill was back, running along his spine with the idea that something was wrong, something big was happening somewhere.  Vampires weren’t nesting in spots they usually gathered.

 

Either they were gathering somewhere Bucky didn’t know about yet or they were running scared from Brooklyn.  Bucky sent a text off to Natasha about it, hoping that she might have run across something similar back when she was the Slayer.

 

“Sleeping in the time between the 40s and now doesn’t count,” Steve continued in a self-deprecating tone.  Then he caught sight of Bucky standing in the middle of the empty mausoleum.  “What is it?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” Bucky answered honestly.  “But it’s not good.  You should go home.”

 

“I could,” Steve mused, “or I can lend a hand.”

 

Bucky turned, his feet whispering against the tiles underfoot.  He observed the man in front of him carefully and weighed the option.  Captain America on his side could really help turn the direction this evening seemed to be going in.  He’d assumed that Steve was following him around out of curiosity and boredom, and more than a tad of old fashioned courtship, but it was undeniable that he also knew his way around various weapons.

 

But at the same time, Steve seemed to be vampire catnip.  They followed his scent like it was the richest blood they’d ever scented.

 

“You might be bait,” Bucky answered honestly, and then he narrowed his eyes in thought as he looked around him.  “But maybe not.  It’s strange that we’ve just walked the length of this place and didn’t encounter a single vampire.”

 

“Do you usually?”

 

“Typically?” Bucky responded with a quirk of his eyebrow as he reached into his satchel and handed Steve a stake.  “One or two on a good night.  Three or four on a bad night when they seem to sense my energy is flagging.  But with you?  Your milkshake brings all the vamps to the yard.”

 

Steve’s eyes narrowed in question.

 

“It’s a song?” Bucky filled in, mentally berating himself for using a pop culture reference from 2003 with a guy who probably still thought microwaves were new and cool.  If Bucky really took a moment to think about what microwaves did, he thought they were cool.

 

“I’ve heard it,” Steve dismissed.  “You think vampires…?” he vaguely gestured to himself.

 

“I _know_. You didn’t notice?  They love you.”

 

“Well,” Steve answered sheepishly, running his hand through his hair.  “Now that I know the signs, it’s easier to see why I kept experiencing attempted muggings.”

 

Bucky laughed.  “How have you heard the Kelis song but you don’t know what Starbucks is?”

 

“I didn’t say I didn’t know what Starbucks was, just that it’s everywhere.”

 

That was… true.  Bucky adjusted how he heard the words to account for Steve’s brand of pointed sarcasm.

 

“I’ll be bait,” Steve agreed.  “I would like to do something to help, and it won’t be the first time I’ve had a target on my back for the sole purpose of attracting the enemy’s attention.”

 

Bucky thought that a lot of the things about Captain America might surprise him, but after meeting Steve, knowing for sure that Captain America keeping the star-spangled uniform on the warfront had been a strategic move wasn’t that surprising.  Bucky had grown up in a culture that studied the man as a historic figure, and there seemed to be a divide between people who thought that the Captain was showy and drunk on the power of his own brand, and those who thought that he used what he’d become as a strategic tool.

 

Personally, Bucky had always thought that it was a branding thing.  He’d become the Slayer in a time when there were slayers in every major city, potentials who had gained their powers in one fell stroke of mad genius.  They were interchangeable, and he’d kind of assumed that behind the myth of Captain America were many people who donned the mask.  In both cases, he couldn’t imagine how taxing it must be to be the only one.

 

“It won’t be a walk in the park,” Bucky told Steve, agreeing that having Steve as bait was a logical decision.

 

“That seems to be exactly what it is,” Steve answered, stepping directly beneath a lamppost.  Bucky sighed and didn’t tell him that being well-lit wasn’t going to matter one way or the other, that Steve stood out whether or not he was visible to all bystanders or not.

 

Steve took a sip from his to-go cup and looked unconcerned.

 

Bucky weighed his options.  He could allow Steve to stand there for a while to see if he attracted attention, but it seemed almost negligent to stay in one spot instead of actively searching out the cause for his feeling of unease.  “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing for Steve to follow him instead.

 

Steve looked amused as Bucky took another drink of the pumpkin spice latte Steve brought him, because Steve was a dick.  Bucky wasn’t going to turn his nose up at coffee and sugar, even if he didn’t really love the taste.  Steve hadn’t been wrong about Bucky preferring things like it.  “What’s the plan?”

 

Bucky shrugged.  “We’re going to walk around some dangerous places and hope for the best.”

 

x.x.x.

 

Nothing happened in Prospect Park.  Nothing happened at Coney Island.  Nothing happened in that weirdly situated hot spot in the middle of Bushwick that didn’t have any history as far as Bucky could tell.

 

“Well, this was uneventful,” Steve said, hands in his pockets and looking casual as they wandered closer to his apartment.  The sun was starting to rise on the horizon, that gossamer liminal moment where the sky turned a dark purple and the world started to wake up.  Of course, Brooklyn didn’t sleep and wake with the sun, so they’d been seeing signs of people for hours, from the drunk partiers wandering home when the bars closed to the bakery and coffee shop workers preparing to open.

 

“Are you calling my small talk skills boring?” Bucky questioned.  He’d regaled Steve with the story of how he became Slayer.  Steve told him how he’d become Captain America.  There were a lot of poor life choices leading to superpowers in their pasts.  Look.  Things in common.  Yay.

 

“I enjoyed our date.”  Steve said that with the kind of casualness that said he was completely unconcerned by the weighty meaning of the word as he leaned closer to Bucky’s space.  “Not much action, though.”

 

Bucky looked at him.  He knew that Steve knew exactly what Bucky was thinking.  Commenting on it would be playing right into Steve’s hand, but he was definitely going to do it.  “You want action—” he asked, opening his mouth and reminding himself not to suggest that they go inside so Bucky could do sinful and dirty things with his mouth if Steve considered this a date.  Steve needed to say it first.

 

He just finished saying the word action when the sun finally peaked over the horizon and the sky flashed a startling and bright green color as something exploded from the direction of Governors Island.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, craning his neck as though that angle would help him see what happened better, but he didn’t need it.  Bucky was a Brooklynite through and through.  His directional instincts were spot on, and that wasn’t a skill he’d gotten through a magical orb.   “Technically Manhattan.  It’s your problem.”

 

Steve sighed.  “I didn’t want that kind of action,” he said, and hesitated, his body going still in a way that said he had been about to move, and he wasn’t sure about it now.  “Do you mind if I…”

 

“Yes?” Bucky asked, swaying closer.  This was it.  Steve was going to ask to kiss him and Bucky was going to take Captain America to bed, hellspawn or not.  He was leaning more towards not these days, but then Steve had definitely been injected with something along with that serum.  Bucky had no room to talk – slayer powers, gift or not, were born from dark things too.

 

Steve’s phone went off.  He scowled and dug it out of his pocket, frowning at the message.  “You’re right,” he told Bucky, looking chagrined.  “It’s my problem.  I’ll see you later?” he confirmed as both a statement and a question while shoving his phone back in his pocket.

 

“Sure,” Bucky agreed, holding one hand up in a lame half-assed wave as Steve hurried to where he parked his motorcycle.  There wasn’t much vindication in anticipating something big happening, not in that moment, and he wondered what he was supposed to do now.

 

x.x.x.

 

The thing about Clayhor demons was that they were totally cute and harmless little things, with the exception of the wicked looking teeth they used to scrape lichen off stone and defend their territory.  They also had a taste for potato chips.  They were the Ewoks of Bucky’s world, and he usually took a few hours out of his Halloween night to bring a group of them trick or treating.  It was mutually beneficial.  They needed the appearance of a chaperone so adults didn’t freak out over the preschoolers being out on their own, and Bucky got all the chocolate and candy he could eat, so long as he left them with their bags of free chips.

 

“Sometimes I think you’re the worst slayer in existence,” Nat pointed out, chomping down on a Snickers bar, like she wasn’t reaping the benefit of Bucky making friends instead of… well, reaping. 

 

“True,” Bucky agreed, putting his feet on her coffee table.  The news was on and it looked like Captain America was having fun battling some douchebag with mystical powers and a vendetta against Halloween.  Someone had probably laughed at his costume.  “Was I supposed to swim the fucking channel?  It’s November!”

 

“Wow.”

 

“I woulda if I had to, but it looks like he has it,” Bucky pointed out, gesturing vaguely towards the TV where Iron Man was now doing something with his hand thrusters.  “Let the Avengers make my life easier.”

 

“I have a theory about your vamp problem that has to do with the green light we saw at dawn.”

 

Bucky shoved a Reese’s cup in his mouth.  “Think this is an apocalypse?”

 

“When is it not?” Natasha commented, and they both watched as The Hulk smashed the costumed evil guy and then sneered at the camera.  “Well.  That’s that.”

 

“No.”  Bucky stood, staring at the television, even though the channel had gone back to its regular programming.  “Did you see that green orb in the background?” he asked, pulling out his phone and calling Steve. 

 

“You’re thinking the Voyager?” Natasha questioned, also getting to her feet and moving towards her laptop.  Every slayer had access to scanned copies of a few key texts uploaded to a cloud drive.  It was even partially indexed and translated.  Natasha had been the one trained in ancient languages.  Bucky had been trained in guns.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky said as he got Steve’s voicemail.  “Don’t touch the orb!” he yelled into the phone.

 

“Found the entry,” Natasha told him.  “Give me a second to translate it.”

 

 **Bucky:** Don’t touch the orb! Apocalypse!

 

“Do you think texting is going to help?” Natasha asked in a cool tone as she wrote something on a notebook in front of her.  “What are you doing?”

 

Bucky finished dragging his sweater off.  “Getting ready to swim to Governors Island.”

 

“He who binds his flesh to the Orb of Voyager shall bring forth the being/lifeforms of the 8th quadrant of Hell.”

 

“Well.”  Bucky started wriggling out of his pants.  There was no way he was swimming about a quarter of a mile in the skinny jeans he wore to make sure Steve Rogers looked at his ass.  He looked at Natasha once he was out of the pants.

 

“Go,” she urged.

 

x.x.x.

 

Bucky shivered as he pulled himself out of the water and on to the pier, and it wasn’t from the cold.  Who knew what gross things he’d just contaminated himself with.  Slayer power might make him impervious to being cold and to infections, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about all the nasty things in the water. 

 

Could slayer power counteract the Hudson?  Only time would tell.

 

He found Steve helping with clean-up, lifting ruined brick and tossing it into a dumpster as a team in official hazard gear secured the area.  “Bucky?  What?” he said in surprise at Bucky’s appearance.  It couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen to twenty minutes to get there, and yet the rest of Steve’s team had already left and clean-up was running smoothly.

 

“Don’t touch the Orb,” Bucky said, breathing hard.

 

“I know,” Steve blinked at him, going from surprised to concerned in an instant.  “I got your message.  Well, JARVIS intercepted the repeated urgency of the tone and passed it along to Stark.  I answered you to tell you it was all clear.”

 

Bucky gestured to himself as if to say ‘do I look like I have my phone on me?’

 

“You replied. I asked for particulars and you passed on the information about what it does and to not touch it with bare skin.  It’s been contained and sent to Stark Tower.”

 

“That would have been Natasha,” Bucky said, running his hand through his drenched hair to push it back from his face.  He dislodged something slimy and it fell to the ground at his bare feet.  God, he hoped that was seaweed.  He shivered again from the cold and the dwindling adrenalin, and steadfastly didn’t think about it.

 

“You’re freezing,” Steve observed.

 

“It’s November.” Bucky rolled his eyes.  “And barely.  I won’t die from a little cold, I’m not sure I even can.  That doesn’t mean I don’t notice it.”

 

Steve looked at him, really looked at him.  Then he nodded.  “Ok,” he answered.  “Grab a shovel.”

 

“And Entertainment Weekly thought you looked like the nurturer of the group,” Bucky griped, and looked towards the shovels.  The truth of the matter was there was no way for Bucky to play this without being incredibly noticeable.  As it was, the clean-up crew were all watching him with barely veiled interest and speculation.  “Putting me to work in my underwear.”

 

Steve raised his eyebrows as if to say ‘well’ at the fact Bucky wasn’t moving to help.

 

“I’m actually just going to go,” he said, pointing his thumb back towards Brooklyn.

 

“The ferries stopped working more than a month ago, I can get you transport back with the crew.”

 

Bucky laughed.  “No kidding, Steve,” he answered, and turned.  He could sense very little magic in the air, just the remnants of whatever had been there.  Magic always tasted like lightening and bitter, burnt sugar in the back of his throat.  Natasha said it had felt like pricklies along her skin to her, but then Bucky hadn’t been born to this.  “You’ll be happy to know whatever you did contained the magical interference.  I don’t sense anything.”

 

Steve nodded.

 

“Make sure you text me if someone has the bright idea to touch the thing.”

 

“You’ll be the first person I call,” Steve acknowledged.

 

x.x.x.

 

November smelled like snow.  The cold lingered in the air throughout the day, chilling the humid air and making every breath crisp.  Bucky took to wearing fingerless gloves with his usual ensemble and looking up at the sky for snow.  The cold-sensitive demons had gone to ground hibernating for the winter.  Some migrated, some took to the tunnels and sewers beneath the city, some burrowed into the ground or receded into the bottom of the Hudson, and some even made their own cocoons.  Rarely did Bucky have to venture underground to deal with any issues and for the most part Brooklyn was quieter from November to mid-March.

 

Vampires, though, were assholes any time of year.

 

It was already dark out by the time Bucky got his coffee to go.  Winter also meant reduced hours for his day job, which meant that he’d have to start cutting down on frivolous spending soon – after December and all the specialty flavored coffees disappeared or lost their appeal.  He had enough in savings that he didn’t have to work for an income until Spring – he’d kind of downplayed the amount he considered petty cash and how lucrative finder’s fees could be to Steve – but Bucky knew that one day he might be put completely out of commission and there wasn’t a retirement plan for Slayers.

 

Slayers died.  That’s what _life’s calling_ meant.

 

He was thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have paid for extra whipped cream when he spotted Steve standing next to a motorcycle and he had to pause.  Bucky didn’t know shit about motorcycles except for _hot_ so he was feeling a little called out by Steve on one.

 

“Hi,” Bucky said.  “I didn’t realize we had plans.”

 

“We don’t,” Steve answered and took a step towards him.  His hands came up to cup Bucky’s face, far more gently than Bucky really needed but just as gentle as he probably deserved.  “Ok?” Steve asked.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, and looked into Steve’s eyes for a few moments, waiting. 

 

Steve’s attention was focused on Bucky’s mouth, and he was just opening it to say something pithy like ‘ravish me now for fucksakes’ when Steve spoke instead.  “I thought about it long before I should have wanted to.  You licked your lips when I told you I was bi.”

 

“That was—” forever ago. 

 

Steve ran his thumb over Bucky’s bottom lip and his tongue darted out to taste Steve’s skin.  “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you.  I don’t _just_ want to kiss you.  I’ve never been good at asking for – let alone taking – the things I want for selfish reasons.”

 

“Learn,” Bucky said.

 

Steve kissed him then, his mouth cool against Bucky’s in a way that would worry him if he hadn’t just come from inside with a hot drink, and Steve Rogers clearly didn’t use a helmet.  What kind of bad influence was he to the youth of America? Kissing men and not wearing helmets?  Definitely not safe for FOX.

 

Bucky hummed happily, his fist closing against the front of Steve’s shirt so he could haul him in closer, making sure to slide his thigh between Steve’s and open his mouth.  Steve, for all his talk about only ever being kissed, knew how to respond to that invite and Bucky found himself pressed down against the seat of the motorcycle, clinging one-handed to Steve’s shirt and spilling his coffee entirely in a puddle on the sidewalk.

 

“Fuck,” Steve said at the sound of his shirt ripping.

 

“I told you,” Bucky replied, pressing his mouth against the corner of Steve’s lips.

 

“You ripped my shirt.”

 

“You spilled my coffee.”

 

They stared at each other for a moment like it was a stand-off.  “Sorry, I’ll buy you another one,” Steve finally conceded. 

 

Bucky got himself a man who understood priorities.

 

“I can’t get to your neck because of your fucking scarves,” Steve griped, his nose in Bucky’s hair and his mouth on his chin.

 

“That’s the point!”  And Steve said they were ineffectual. What a dick.  Bucky tilted his head so he could kiss Steve again, enjoying how quickly he’d warmed up.  Once Steve was pressing back against him, Bucky put his hand to his chest and pushed him gently away, hopping back to his feet and straightening his shirt.  He knew exactly what he looked like with his hair loose and disheveled and his mouth kiss-swollen.  “Coffee?” he urged.  “Slaying waits for no man.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Catch me on tumblr](relenafanel.tumblr.com)
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> [JUICY pants art by lenadraws.](http://relenafanel.tumblr.com/post/166727844948/ellebeesknees-lenadraws-inktober-day-23)


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